Dirty Rogue: A Bad Boy Billionaire Romance Read online

  “This is a hell of a way to start things off.”

  “What things?” I say, grinning at her pure, musical laughter.

  “Living in New York.”

  I put my armload of stuff onto the sidewalk and spread my arms wide. “Welcome to the city!”

  “Damn right.”

  It takes three trips to get the majority of her stuff back to the curb, and then I go after the suitcase. The zipper is busted, but it can hold her things for the time being. She piles it all in, then ties it shut with a pair of pantyhose.

  Straightening back up, she looks at me, eyes alight. “Thanks for helping me out. It’s the first time since—” Then she shakes her head. “Never mind. Thank you.” She extends a hand. “Quinn Campbell.”

  “Christian Pierce,” I say. When our hands touch there’s a kind of electric charge, and I have to resist the urge to keep holding on. “Let me give you a ride. My driver is waiting right over there.” I gesture to where Louis has double-parked.

  “I’m all right,” she says, holding up a hand. “I’m a block away from my new place. I’ll be all right.” With that, she turns away, pulling the beat-up suitcase behind her.

  “You sure?”

  “Completely,” she says with a final glance over her shoulder, and I see the hint of a smile on her face. After that, she never turns back.

  I watch her until she’s lost behind traffic and people.

  I’ll probably never see Quinn Campbell again.

  At the thought, I have a feeling that takes me completely off-guard.

  It’s regret.

  Chapter 5

  Quinn

  Carolyn opens the door, takes one look at me, and screeches, “Q! Why didn’t you call for a ride?”

  I burst out laughing—I can’t help it. This entire traveling experience has been so goddamn ridiculous that it’s the only one way to respond. Carolyn ushers me into the entryway of her apartment—now my apartment, too—and looks from me to my pantyhose-tied suitcase with her mouth hanging open.

  “What the hell happened to you?” she says after my laughter has died out.

  “Oh, Care,” I say, putting my hands to my forehead. “I landed at LaGuardia and got a cab, but the driver turned out to be a total psycho, so I made him let me out early. And then the fucking suitcase got stuck in the street—”

  “How?”

  “That’s not even the worst thing! Some idiot in an SUV ran over it with his car!”

  “And you didn’t call the police?” she interjects, her voice getting even louder.

  “No!” I shout back at her, a tinge of hysteria in my voice. “I didn’t call anybody! I didn’t even get the cab driver’s name!”

  “Oh, my God,” Carolyn says, before springing into action. “You can’t stand there in wet clothes. Come here. No, don’t worry about the carpet, just follow me.”

  I stop only to peel off my shoes and socks, tucking the soaked pieces of fabric into the palm of one of my hands.

  Carolyn leads me through the entry hallway and across the living room, then down another hallway, speaking as we go. “This is where the bedrooms are. Mine is down on the right, and yours is right here.” She opens a door, and I step into a second bedroom that’s easily twice as large as the master bedroom in my house in Colorado.

  Yeah, Carolyn is loaded. It’s not like I’m a slouch in the money-making department, but I can’t touch the kind of trust fund that Care and the majority of her rich friends have.

  I follow her across the plush carpeting of the bedroom that’s now mine. It smells freshly cleaned and the bed is already made up with a tasteful comforter and throw pillows. “You didn’t have to go to so much trouble,” I say, taking it all in.

  “It was absolutely no trouble at all,” says Carolyn, a little formally, as if we didn’t live together for two years back when experimenting with frat boys was all the rage.

  “No, really, Car,” I say as she precedes me into a large bathroom. The shower is glass-enclosed and fancy as hell with one of those rainwater shower heads. “It means a lot. Thank you.”

  She smiles at me, and her whole face lights up. Carolyn is one of those people who comes off as sweet even when she’s acting tough. The heart can hardly handle it when she’s just being her regular nice self. Then she gets another glimpse of my soaking clothes and gestures to the towels that hang from brass hooks on the wall near the shower.

  “Towels are here,” she says. “My cleaning service keeps the bathrooms stocked with shampoo, conditioner, and body wash, but if you don’t like any of it, let me know and I’ll have them replace it with your brand. There’s a robe hanging on the back of the door. I’ll get you some of my things to wear once you’re out.”

  I can already feel the tension of the day leaving my shoulders, and I haven’t even stepped into the shower yet.

  Carolyn bustles toward the door, then turns back. “Quinn?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Are you having other clothes sent? Or was everything in your suitcase?”

  I let out a little sigh. “I wasn’t going to send anything else.”

  She nods once. “If you don’t mind—while you’re in here, I’ll separate the clothes and set them aside for the cleaner. We can shop tomorrow, if you want—there’s plenty of my stuff to borrow from in the meantime.”

  “Fine by me. I always wanted to go on a New York City shopping spree.” This isn’t exactly true. I’ve never thought about going on a New York City shopping spree until this moment, but Carolyn brightens at the idea.

  “Enjoy,” she says, then pulls the bathroom door shut behind her.

  Thirty minutes later, I emerge clean and fresh, my hair dried and brushed out into shining dark waves. It feels great to not have it pulled into a bun, weighted down with water.

  Carolyn has stocked the closet in my bedroom with several outfits. On the bed, she laid out a plain pink tank with matching lounge pants.

  She gets me.

  I wander out into the living room to find her curled up on the couch, a mug of tea in her hand.

  “You look nice,” she says when she sees me, then holds up the mug. “Want some?”

  “I’m all right,” I say, then flop down across from her. Her air conditioning is running full-blast against the July heat, but there are soft blankets placed strategically on the arms of the couch and across the back. I pull one over my legs as Carolyn considers me.

  “You’ve had a day,” she says finally, and I hear the invitation to talk in her voice.

  “I’ve had a month.”

  “Ugh,” Carolyn says, looking down. “I’m sorry about all that with Derek. That’s…awful. We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

  “It’s just—” A lump comes to my throat. The betrayal is still so fresh and raw. “He’s just a dick. I’m better off without him.”

  “You so are!” Carolyn looks back at me, then changes the subject. “Looks like New York City gave you quite the welcome.”

  “It definitely was not what I was expecting when I got on the plane this morning,” I say, then cover my eyes with my hands. “My suitcase got run over by a car! And the driver didn’t even stop! Tell me not everyone in New York City is that crazy.”

  “Not everyone in New York City is that crazy.”

  “Not if the cab driver is any indication.”

  “What was his problem?” Carolyn stretches out her legs onto the matching ottoman. “I haven’t heard too many cab horror stories since I moved here. Then again—”

  “Your friends have drivers?” I laugh at the thought of having a driver. Like Christian Pierce, the smoking hot guy in the tuxedo who appeared out of nowhere when my suitcase exploded. “I met a guy with a driver today.”

  “Did you?” Carolyn’s brow wrinkles. “Where?”

  “On the street corner. Wait. That doesn’t sound right.” We both laugh, and then I tell her the story of the man in the tuxedo rushing to my aid, only it was too late. I leave out the
fact that looking into his eyes made my entire body heat up. I leave out the fact that when I turned away from him, I wanted to march right back and ask him for a date.

  What was stopping you? The thought rises in the back of my mind, but I swat it away. Remember Derek? No way are you jumping headfirst into dating on your first day.

  “—wearing a tux, Car,” I finish.

  “Did you get his number?”

  “No,” I say, then laugh. “No way. I am not on the market. I got his name though. Christian.”

  “Christian Pierce?” Carolyn shrieks.

  “Yes?” How the hell does she know him?

  My friend laughs so hard tears come to the corners of her eyes.

  “Carolyn, what—”

  “Oh, my God, this is too much. Remember back in college, how we used to talk about our friends from school? You know who Jess is, but Chris—that’s short for Christian. Christian Pierce and I have been friends for a long time.”

  It all hits me at once. Carolyn knows the mystery man with the stunning blue eyes. My guess is, they run in the same social circle.

  The truth is that when I walked away from him, I thought I’d never see him again. Why would I run into a guy like that at work, or at my apartment? Why would I run into him in a city this big, when I’m just a regular girl running away from Colorado?

  Looks like the city just got smaller.

  Chapter 6

  Christian

  I can’t stop thinking about her.

  Friday morning at the Pierce Industries building, and it’s time to move into my new corner office on the eighteenth floor, where the entertainment division is headquartered. My assistant brought down most of my things yesterday before she left for the day, so all there is to do now is to look through my desk and make sure I haven’t left anything behind.

  I pull open all of the drawers.

  All empty.

  Not a single trace of me remains in this office.

  “Feeling sentimental?”

  My father leans against the doorway, his Italian suit tailored perfectly to his lean frame.

  “For this old place?” I say with a grin, standing up from behind the desk. “Not at all. Bigger and better things.”

  “That’s my boy,” he says wryly, but there’s an undercurrent of approval there. A hot spike of resentment burns through my chest. All those years that he thought my brother walked on water…

  To cover it up, I smile even wider, meeting him at the doorway. “Monthly board meeting?”

  “Business as usual,” he says with a little sigh, even though I know he fucking loves board meetings. The board of directors at Pierce Industries is largely decorative. It’s a private company, but my father thought it would give his decisions more legitimacy if he could collect opinions from the board before he announced them.

  Not that they ever sway him. He just likes to throw his weight around. Dear old dad is a devious bastard like that.

  You’re not much better.

  And then another thought, hard on its heels:

  What would Quinn Campbell think?

  To cover it, I smile wider at my father, let him clap me on the back, and then walk with him to the elevators. “Meetings of my own,” I say, and just then a car arrives, going down. I step in, but my father steps back. He’s going up.

  Isn’t that always how it is?

  The door slides shut behind me, and I put a hand to my head.

  Why the hell would I possibly care what Quinn Campbell thinks? She’s some woman I met for twenty minutes in the rain yesterday, not the goddamn love of my life.

  There’s never going to be a love of my life.

  It’s just not in the cards for Christian Pierce.

  Not now, not ever.

  Because that would mean…

  I shake my head sharply. I’m not going to think about it.

  What I need to do is focus on my job. On my friends. I have plans for a group to go to the Swan tonight. I’m bringing Melody. She doesn’t work for Pierce Industries. Partners have been known to bring women who are “temping as assistants” with them to the gala to liven things up.

  It worked.

  But the main thing I care about is that when I end things with Melody—and I will end things, in three dates or less—it won’t become an issue at the office. She gets what she wants. I get the distraction I want. No workplace drama.

  Except in my own goddamned head.

  If I’m really being honest with myself, I don’t want to go to the Swan with Melody. I want to go back in time and ask Quinn Campbell if she’ll be my date instead.

  I’d break the rules for her.

  No. Fuck no.

  Even having the thought chills me to the core, and for the hundredth time today, I wonder how the hell a woman I saw for twenty minutes has such a hold over me.

  It’s not love. I’m not in love with her. I just want her. I’m intrigued by her. I want to know more about her. I want to know what made her decide to drag that massive suitcase through the rain in SoHo. I want to know what made her flinch when I touched her arm. I want to know why she was more worried about her things becoming litter than about saving any of them. Where did she come from, that when her life was splattered all over a New York City intersection, she didn’t even cry?

  Maybe she’s just tough.

  Or maybe there’s more to know about her.

  I could look her up. I give Stephanie, my assistant, a nod as I go past her and into my office. No. I dismiss the idea. I’m not going to go chasing some woman all over the city just to…

  Just to what? Take her on three dates, and then leave her behind like all the rest?

  Something tells me it won’t be that easy.

  But I can’t afford for it to be difficult.

  I absolutely cannot allow those kinds of complications into my life, because if I were to fall in love…

  I could fall in love with her.

  I take a deep breath and let it out through my nose. This is crazy. This kind of thinking—it’s just going to get me into trouble.

  Those captivating green eyes have sucked me in. The confident way she stood, the way she spoke, imprinted itself on my mind, and I can’t forget her.

  Quinn Campbell.

  “Stop,” I say out loud, bringing my hand down on the surface of my desk, and moments later Stephanie appears at the door.

  “Did you need something, Mr. Pierce?”

  “No, Stephanie. Actually—” I wrack my brain for a plausible request, something to hide the fact that something is bothering me, hide the fact that I’m not my usual carefree cocky self. “Give me a rundown of my schedule today.”

  “Absolutely,” she says, looking down at a notepad nestled in the crook of her arm. “In fifteen minutes, there’s a department update meeting. At lunch, you’re scheduled to go out with…”

  I’m looking at her, trying my damnedest to pay attention, but all I can think of are those eyes.

  Just then, my phone buzzes in my pocket and I pull it out, desperate for a distraction. “Give me a minute, Stephanie.”

  At first, I don’t understand the message on my screen.

  It’s from Carolyn.

  Why didn’t you tell me you met my new roommate? ;)

  She had mentioned a new roommate, someone moving in this week from out in Colorado. A college roommate. I can’t remember the name, but…

  It hits me like a Mack truck.

  The suitcase.

  The rain.

  Carolyn’s neighborhood.

  Quinn Campbell is Carolyn’s roommate.

  Chapter 7

  Quinn

  Friday morning comes quietly. I’d imagined that living in New York City would be like sticking my head into a waterfall of pure noise—the city that never sleeps, and all that—but Carolyn lives a charmed life. Her apartment is on the sixth floor of the building and the walls and windows are thick, blocking out all but the most insistent street noise.

  I’ve ju
st stretched out in the queen-size bed, luxuriating in the soft sheets that Carolyn’s made up the bed with, when my phone blares its ringtone from the bedside table, sending my heart rate through the roof.

  “Shit!” I blurt into the shattered quiet of the room and fumble for the phone, snatching it up just before it goes to voicemail. “Hello?”

  “Ms. Campbell?” It’s a man, but I can’t identify the deep voice. I feel a wild hope that maybe it’s Christian Pierce, the man with the stunning eyes, the chiseled jaw I kept seeing in my dreams last night. I don’t know how he got my number, but—

  “Yeah. Yes. That’s me,” I say, putting my hand to my chest.

  “This is Greg Porter of Porter Plumbing,” rumbles the voice on the other end of the line. Oh, Jesus, I forgot all about the message I left at the first plumbing company that popped up in a Google search. The realtor had someone come out and shut off the water, so the pipes aren’t actively leaking—at least, I hope he’s not calling to say there’s been a flood.

  “Hi, Greg,” I say smoothly, my PR training kicking in. “Was Sherrie able to let you into the house?”

  “Yes,” he says, but there’s a hitch in his voice that tells me all is not well. “But Ms. Campbell…”

  “Lay it on me, Greg. What’s the deal with my basement?”

  “The situation is going to involve more than pipe repair.”

  “Okay?”

  “The water wasn’t shut off quickly enough to prevent any damage to the drywall and the carpeting.” His sigh comes over the line clear as a damn bell. “It’s only lucky that you’ve moved out most of the furniture and possessions. Look, Ms. Campbell, we can fix the pipes, but I think you’re going to need a contractor to come down here and take a look at the drywall. At the very least, the carpet will need to be professionally cleaned, and with the amount of time the water’s been sitting—”

  It occurs to me that Sherrie had the water turned off. She didn’t have it removed from the basement. Fuck.

  “I understand. Are you able to do the repairs on the pipes, at least?”